Memories Of You
by Karkalicious769
Summary: If I had the chance, I would go back to all of those precious days, no matter how much we fought. I've always thought you were invincible. It never crossed my mind that you'd be gone. I want to tell you how much you mean to me. And that I'm sorry. TW: Self-hate and angst (Will eventually contain stories for all the kids)
1. Roxy: Think About Your Mom

**"What is consistency? We just don't know." - Anonymous**

* * *

"Mom..."

You are now Roxy Lalonde. Today is your fifteenth birthday and, much like the ones that came before it, you are spending it alone. At first it bothered you that you were alone on such an important day, but with the help of booze and too much time spent deep in your own thoughts, you've convinced yourself that the day really isn't all that important.

That made you feel a little better.

"Where are you?" You ask the ceiling from your sprawled out position on your bed. You know she's not really there, and therefore can't really answer, but right now you'd be willing to do _anything_ to break the unbearable silence of your room. "How've you been?"

You sigh and shift to your side, burring your face into your pillow for comfort. "Not much has changed here. I'm three years older now." As you say this, you can feel the tears welling up in your eyes, but you force them away. It wasn't your mom's fault she wasn't here. You know she would be if she could. At least you hope so. "Did you know there was a lab underneath our house?"

Now your just forcing yourself to talk, and it's getting admittedly harder considering the tightness in your throat and the fog in your mind. That seems to happen a lot ever since you started drinking. "You probably do. There's a lot of things you seem to know about this world." From your curled up position on the edge of the bed, it's hard to see when Frigglish enters the room, but you see him nonetheless and smile. "That I'm still discovering."

This part comes out as a whisper, as you don't want to scare off your poor cat before you seize the opportunity for some good old fashioned TLC. And you defiantly will.

"I have a cat now, too. I named him Frigglish." You announce, picking up Frigglish and hoisting him up once he moves close enough for you to do so. "I appearified him in the lab from somewhere else." For some reason, you feel the need to justify the cat, even though the women your speaking too has no chance of hearing you. That's alright though. Considering that you haven't spoken to her since you were twelve, the situation was very comforting to you. "He's pretty cute."

Frigglish worms his way out of your grip and crawls back and forth across your lap, rubbing against your stomach when the opportunity is presented. You smile and put him behind the ear, just where he likes. "I wish you could meet him." At this, you frown and stand up, setting Frigglish next to you as your legs wobble slightly, trying to get accustomed to actually working. "Mom... Why did you leave?" You mumble, your voice hoarse as you stumble towards you desk.

Instead of your computer, the desk holds empty bottles of wine, liquor, beer, anything you could get your hands on. It reflects your room, which in turn reflects your mood.

Broken.

Damaged.

Chaotic.

Pathetic.

"I've started drinking to try and not think about it." You mutter, pressing a hand to your forehead and pushing back a few strands of hair while your other hand wraps around one of the few bottles that still contain alcohol. Your head pounds with the hangover from yesterday and the drinks you've downed recently, and you know your voice will be off for a week, but you don't care. You don't see why you should care. It's not like anyone else does. Least of all, the one person you want to the most.

"But now I think I'm an alcoholic."

You frown in distaste and bring the bottle to your lips, hesitating before you throw rationality to the wind once more and tilt your head back, chugging the liquid. It burns on it's way down, and you relish in the feeling. At least, of only for a second, you weren't thinking about your mom. And those few seconds were _bliss_. When you finally stop swallowing, it takes you a moment to realize that it's because the bottle is empty. This causes a small pang in your gut, but you ignore it in favor of whipping away your tears with your forearm. You hadn't noticed that you had been crying.

But then again, no one else ever does.

"I just... I miss you so much." You sob, trying not to hiccup and pass out as you continue, frantic now. Desperately, you try to think of something good in your life, and you manage to come up with one thing. "I have some really good friends now." The words are past your lips before you can stop them, but you don't mind. At least that much was true. "Jake... Dirk... Jane..." And just like that, the small smile who had forced shattered, like the splinters of your heart, and the tears flowed even faster than before, almost drowning you as you continue.

"But they're not like you."

You hold the up the hand that's still gripping the bottle and press your arm to your eyes, trying to catch the tears before they come out. It doesn't work of course, but it makes you feel better. Like maybe there's one thing you can control in you life.

"It's not the same." You whisper, trying so hard to scream, but lacking the motivation. Your shoulders heave with the force of your sobs, and your slide to the ground, the bottle rolling out of your hand and joining the ranks of the millions of other forgotten trinkets coating your bedroom floor.

"I need you mom. Please..."

By now, your shirt is completely soaked at the top, but, just like everything else, you don't care. Instead, you place a hand on your head, threading your fingers through the blonde strands and pulling painfully, digging your nails into the skin, clawing at your roots, just _anything_ to make the pain go away.

It doesn't work.

You only cry harder.

"Come back."


	2. Rose: Plan For Your Daughter

_**"Believing you're going to be a mother of sorts, spending a large part of your life preparing for that duty and blessing, and then suddenly finding out that it was never meant to happen that way, that the little girl you saw in your dreams would never be yours or know you - how devastating would that be?" - Anonymous**_

* * *

Your name is Rose Lalonde.

Right now, you're leaning against your kitchen counter, swallowing the urge to gag as you choke down wine straight from the bottle. It was bitter, burned your mouth, and you had lost your flare for it years ago, but it dulled your mind, as well as your memory, and that was what mattered at the moment.

If you were drunk, then you wouldn't be able to think about _her_.

You had been dreaming about her for nearly your whole life, a girl that looked too much like you for it to be a coincidence. You've never seen her before, and neither of you says a thing in your brief dreams. You just stare at each other. She always looks so concerned, and you always wonder why. Her lips move, but you don't hear anything except static.

Or, at least, you used to.

Then a few years ago, the static in your dreams faded, and you could hear her for the first time. You could make out the words, and study a voice that was frighteningly similar to yours.

"Mom," She'd say, holding your limp body close. "Mom! Please wake up." You never understood what she meant. You wanted to reach out, tell her that you were fine, awake and happy to see her, but you couldn't do much more than squint your eyes. She was always too bright to get a good look at.

But her eyes were always so clear, so wide, and so pink, and filled with an emotion no one had ever shown you.

Love.

She loved you, and you loved her.

Your daughter, you soon realized. She was your daughter.

And you, a young fool at only age twenty, began preparing for your future as a mother. You gave up alcohol and dated frequently, waiting for the wonder full day you would become pregnant and finally meet the little girl you had spent so many of your nights dreaming about.

You decided that you would name her Roxy.

As soon as you bought your first house with the money from your first published book, you went to work.

You painted the walls a light pink and make the carpet darker, the exact shade as her eyes. Or as close as you could get to it, at least. You turned the ceiling into a starry night sky, and you hung curtains on all the windows. She looked pale in your dreams, and you didn't want her to get sunburned. You nailed a shelf into the wall and set some children's books on it. They had never been your strong suit when it came to writing, but you thought she'd like them. You set up the crib, made of smooth white wood, and lastly, you set up the mobile. You don't know what encouraged you to by such a thing, but you did. It had twelve shapes hanging from it, none of which seemed to relate directly to the other. One of them was similar to a sun, and looking at it made you feel… something. A longing, you suppose? A strange tightness in your chest.

You're still not sure why they were so familiar.  
Once everything was said and done, it took you a week to get her room finished, but it was worth it. She'd love it when she got here, you just knew it. You rub your stomach and lean against the wall, satisfied with your work. There was no baby-bump, not yet, but there would be soon. You were always pretty lucky.

Five years later, just as you're starting to doubt your supposed luck, you have a different dream.

She's still in it, of course, but so are other people. People you feel the need to protect, though you don't recognize any of them. One girl in particular looks about ready to kill you, wielding a giant fork, and though you don't want to hurt her, you know you have to.

But before you can attack, the girl charges at you, her fork looking startlingly sharp up close, and just as she's about to impale you, you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the pain to come.

It never does. You open your eyes and gasp in shock, tears pooling in your eyes at the familiar figure in front of you. She lets out a low groan and falls to the ground, blood pouring from her open wound. You fall to your knees next to her, clutching her as the warmth fades from her body and a battle rages around you.

You don't care about any of that.

Your whole world is centered around her closed eyes and the frightening lack of a pulse.

And suddenly, you know that all of these years of planning were pointless. You were never going to have a daughter. This was all just some sick, twisted joke. It was never meant to be.

At the thought of the dream you just woke up from, you slam your empty bottle back down and stumble to the liquor cabinet, grabbing another bottle. This one goes down slower, but it goes down all the same. Drunk out of your mind, you wobble into the pink nursery you had set up, tears coming to your eyes at the thought of the crib you would never use, sitting there, empty. Pointless.

You take another swing, wiping away the tears with sluggish movement, and through impenetrable fog clogging your mind, you wonder why you're crying.

You decide it doesn't matter

None of it does, not any more.

You were so preoccupied with worrying that you weren't ready for her to come, it completely slipped your mind to worry that you might not be ready when she _didn't_.


End file.
